Father Flashbacks
by 2whitie
Summary: Sherlock never mention his father. What was he like? How did he help shape the man we know as Sherlock Holmes. Bookverse and TV verse. No slash. One-Shot. Gift for a classmate.


**This is my first Sherlock Fanfic (and possibly my last). For a huge fan of Sherlock, who requested this. There will be references to the actual series, and Horowitz's House of Silk. (Whoever hasn't read the ending, read it, and let your mouths drop open. I literally gasped)**

**Prompt: Sherlock's Father. Never mentioned in the series, so make a one shot about him. This will contain no slash . I'm naming his father Alex. If you want to know why, read a crossover called Rider on the Storm, it's an Alex Rider/Sherlock crossover that is just amazing. **

John Watson laid down all of his aching limbs down on the bench outside the park. Relief spread through him, not only from his aching limbs, but from a little voice in the back of his head that he had gained ever since he had started his blog, an eye watching everything in third person so he could write it that way. He had the sudden urge to talk to his tea.

"No cases. No bodies coming via the mail wrapped in bubble wrap. No swordsmen of doom. What do you think? Is it good?"

The tea looked up at him, and in the swirly depths, he could hear it say "_Really_? _This is a park._ _Do not scare the children." _

Without even looking around, he felt someone approaching. Without even looking, he could almost feel the sense of familiarity, like his sixth sense, and he knew that it was Sherlock.

"John, I came-"

"-No, Sherlock. Not Now."

Sherlock sat beside him on the bench, with his customary jacket and scarf announcing themselves to the world. John could feel the energy it what Sherlock was about to say, but he could not see it. Like everything else about the man, even his excitement was muted and focused onto a single point. For the first time in a while, he ignored it, shut his eyes, and breathed in the scent of the park.

Sherlock watched him, and to quench the urge to analyze the bench, he looked at the kids ahead of them. He was about to nudge John again, it was an important case. He felt his obsession with the case closing in again, irrelevant things already fading out, when he noticed the kids, as in hi-def, before they faded out as well. They were playing cards with a dark-haired, cheerful man watching. Two kids. One Man. One without expression, one carefree, was bending the cards with impatience.

_"Daddy, Mycroft is cheating again!"_

_ His Father looked up from what he was doing, which was arranging a haircut for himself. His unit deployed in a few days, and he couldn't go with his hair in the state it was in. _

_ "Mycroft, we talked about this-" _

_ Mycroft's grin vanished. _

_ He sighed; he hated to get after his son days before he left. "-Don't get caught." _

_ Mycroft resumed grinning, and Sherlock kept on scowling. Of course Mycroft wouldn't get in trouble. Of course he wouldn't. _

John peeked one eye open, like a little kid. Sherlock seemed to be watching something flash right by his eyes, the hand that was about to prod him stone-still, every muscle flexed. He felt his chest rise with a concerned inquiry on his lips, but right before it came out, he declined from asking.

_"What are you doing in my room, Sherlock?" _

_ "Did Dad help you with this?" Brief and to the point. Mycroft frowned. It was one of the many things Sherlock now had in common with their father. Before, they were Polar opposites.. Their Father had become brief and to the point after his best friend had bled out in his arms during the war. He had returned early, devastated at the airport, and on the way home, he had gotten himself drunk. That was how Sherlock found him, slouched on the couch, staring into the distance, as if there was a screen portraying all his memories. _

_ "Yes, he helped me." Mycroft puffed out his chest proudly. "Took yesterday off work to help me with it. See, if you press this, the side…" _

_ Sherlock knew that his Father had started leaning toward Mycroft after the war. Mycroft had found interest in watching the news, in preventing wars, in peace making and high government. He knew what he wanted in life. Sherlock had thought for a while thought that his Father liked Mycroft more. He never forgot the day he thought so._

His eyes darted to the side, focusing in on the kids again. The one with a scowl plastered to his face was studying a bug with interest, despite the fact it had just bit him with obvious joy. The Cheerful one was clearly concerned, not fake, but really concerned. He fished around in his pockets for a second before he pulled out a Peanuts band-aid, and promptly wrapped it around his brothers finger. Sherlock could hear the cheerful one speak, although it was distorted by normal park sounds.

"I am NOT kissin' that!"

Hmm. The band-aid was rumpled in about three places, been in the pocket, but not the boys favorite pocket. Observing by the hand he used to apply it with, he was right-handed. The band-aid was without the box, so it was originally meant for something else. He had already seen the boys hands earlier, so judging by the fact he was leaning toward his left, he had injured his right toe, and the band-aid in his pocket was a back-up. The band aid on the other hand, looked a lot like the one that Mycroft had brought home two days after-

_"You just wanted to get on his good side."_

_ "What?" _

_ "Shut up Mycroft" Sherlock spat out the words. "It's been two days. TWO days since he came home from that debriefing. Two days since he found out that if he hadn't had the fever during that medical briefing, he would have had the skills to save his best friends life. Two days since he came home so drunk, he didn't know me. Asked me who I was. Two days later, YOU show up with a book on medical…stuff!" _

_ Sherlock threw Mycroft his best death glare, a glare that showed that his eyes were dangerously close to overflowing with tears. _

_ Mycroft grabbed Sherlock around his thing shoulders and shook them. "Sherlock. Stop. Think. Observe." _

_ "NO!" _

_ Mycroft's grip tightened. "Listen, or I will walk you to your class tomorrow-"_

_ "They don't teach anything useful." _

_ "Yes, they do. Whatever. I will walk you to your class, and yell as loud as I can to have a nice day, __**Sherly. **__And repeat it over and over. _

_ Sherlock turned to a stuffed elephant nearby. "He's not very nice." _

_ "Sherlock. Think. Remember the book. Recall the cover. Was it hardcover?" _

_ Sherlock felt everything else drift away, something that was frighteningly easy to do. "No. It was covered in plastic. Was worn, as if you studied it. There was a stain on the inside of it, judging by the discoloring, it was milk. Not you who made it, you're lactose intolerant. Had a house on the side, published by McMillan books." _

_ " What is McMillan books?" _

_"They produce schoolbooks..oh." _

_ "Yes. You let your emotion rule your primary response. It's something Father does too. He sees you growing into a miniature him. Before the army, he was quiet, withdrawn, more the sitting-down type, except when he was in action. Very trusting, of everyone, including the world. The war came, and he can go for long stretches without talking, he always needs to do something. He feels miserable." Mycroft gave him one last hard look before leaving the room. "He doesn't want you to be either." _

_ Sherlock sat for a minute. He knew by the tone and facial signs that Mycroft had meant to comfort him. He had only made it worse. His father, saw him, and saw a failure. _

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the two boys and grabbed for the hem of his jacket. It felt like-

_His father sat sole on the couch, looking at Sherlock's physics project, the only class he seemed to be doing well in. _

_ "It feels like a fuzzy stress ball."_

_"It matches your sweater!" _

_ "Are you planning on being a fashion designer? If you are, first, you need to wear a scarf. Adds something. Pair that up with a long coat. Women magnet." _

_ "Father, no-" _

_ "Don't mess with my sense of fashion Sherlock. You can't make mad. See, I have a stress ball!" _

_ "Never wanted to be a fashion designer." _

_ "Sherlock, do whatever you want. You and your brother both have the brains to do whatever you want. Promise me Sherlock. Promise me you wont follow in your brothers footsteps. Or Mine. Do whatever you want, except a car salesman. Or a telemarketer. Never met one who calls during a reasonable hour. Promise me Sherlock." _

_ "Father, I-" _

_ "Promise me Sherlock Holmes, that you do what makes you happy. Faith, Family and Friends. Live your life in that order. It is your decision also, when friends become family. Say yes, Sherlock." _

_ Before he even opened his mouth, he saw his father muscles relaxing, into a sitting position he had not seen since before he was deployed. He smiled. _

"Sherlock, ready to go?"

Sherlock looked at John, who was looking across the street a middle aged woman who had walked into a shop with one of John's favorite books. Sherlock smiled.

"Yes...John."

John stood up to leave, even though he had already picked up his coffee from that exact shop twenty minutes ago.

"You go on ahead." He flipped up his collar (and saw John roll his eyes) and walked over to hare the two boys were sitting. He looked at the more cheerful one, and tossed him a paperback. Then he left.

John didn't even look as he approached. "What did you toss to that kid?"

"A Study in Scarlet."

"Never heard of it."

"One of my personal favorites."

"You need to stop reading that stuff; you look like you've seen a ghost."

"The only ghost I saw was the bed sheet fluttering everywhere that Mrs. Hudson stole to clean on a clothesline."

"That will be a problem for the mattress."

"Come again?"

"No sheet, Sherlock."

**For those of you who didn't get the last line sound it out, unless your parents are right behind you. Think about it…..Just PM me if you don't get it. *pants* Wow. Never written something like that before. It's exhausting. Tell me what you think, and if you have read the House of Silk. Hoped you liked it. Hope it wasn't confusing. If you thing Mycroft was OOC, it was because I based him more on the books, and combined him with the TV show. Manipulative, smart, but also a shred of concern for Sherlock. **__


End file.
